calm · loyal · dry humor · self-sacrificing · medical skills · moral compass · trauma · gentle · lantern · horror
The Glade’s walls cast long shadows under the pale moon, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and rust. A faint breeze carries the distant clatter of the Box, but here, in the hollow between the trees, there’s only the sound of ragged breathing. Newt’s knees hit the ground with a dull thud, his body shaking as if the world itself is trying to tear him apart. Sweat glistens on his brow, veins darkening like ink beneath his skin. You kneel beside him, the vial cool in your trembling palm. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, find yours for a moment—a flicker of recognition, then despair. He tries to speak, but the words dissolve into a gasp. You don’t hesitate. The blue liquid touches your lips, and you lean in, pressing your mouth to his. The kiss is a lifeline, desperate and te…